


gypsy

by dancingthru



Category: American Horror Story
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-02 19:52:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16311650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingthru/pseuds/dancingthru
Summary: in the aftermath, Cordelia knows what she needs, just not what she wants





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> angst and more angst.

The thing that cut so deeply, in the years that led to this moment, was the unfairness of it all. 

It made Cordelia feel like a child, petulant and mewling for something that didn’t exist. What is _fair_ after all? A fairytale, a wives’ tale, something dreamt up and spun to placate the young and the naive into thinking that the world has balance and equanimity and purpose. 

_(It does, she knows this, she knows that magic couldn’t exist without this balance and that dark and light couple together in horrible, beautiful ways but _this_ , this is one thing that never fails to suck out the venomous pessimism that hunkers deep beneath her rib cage, this is the only thing that ever made her stop believing, in magic or anything else.)_

It wasn’t fair, she had cried, she had screamed, in the days and weeks and months that followed that tender, willowy body, limp in her arms and so light, too light, and then gone all at once. 

It was stupid, she knew, but it was all she had. What else could she say, or do? Death, perhaps, was never complete or permanent, not to a witch, not to the Supreme, but this wasn’t death, this was something beyond it. Misty had been claimed by the dark, and this was wrong, not because she was gone but because she deserved so much more. She was light, the type of softness that didn’t exist in so many versions of the world, belonging wholly to the earth and the trees and the water and the things that have remained whole in an anthropocene present reality that she was forced to live in.

So nothing was more unfair than to take Misty and smother her in dark. Or so she claimed, so she pretended, but really that wasn’t it, really what Cordelia resented more than anything was to have that light stolen from her. She’d lived in the light and succumbed to the dark twice, when her eyes were stolen and replaced and destroyed and replaced again. She knew what it meant to be blinded, to lose the power to see. And yet. And yet. There was no darkness like the one that Misty left. Even when Cordelia regained her sight, the world stayed dark, and it wasn’t fair, god damn it, no, it wasn’t _fair_. What else could she say? What else could she do?

_(Take me instead. She said that, often enough to mean it, loudly enough to beg it, but whatever shadows bartered with souls never came near, perhaps sensing that the desperation that fueled this plea was eclipsed by the power, the reverential significance of the Supreme.)_

And now here Misty is, alive and warm and smelling so thickly of dew and honeysuckle and hope, as if she just rolled out of the bayou and tripped into her arms minutes ago, as if the dark never stole anything and wasn’t about to gut Cordelia’s whole world again. She materialized like a dream, a silhouette for a moment, and then it was all too much, she was too real and too heavy.

Cordelia existed in seconds, in heartbeats. First, the fear, when Michael returned and he was alone, the solitude so heavy, because if this child of the blackness couldn’t bring her back _then who the hell could_. And then, and then, oh God the moments that followed, the seconds when he looked down and Cordelia _knew_ what was coming, and then she saw the shape, just a shimmer that looked more like hope than anything else, and then it looked like _her_ , all languid beauty and soft curls and blushes and rose petal lips and honey sweet skin.

At first, all she can feel is fear. It’s deep and heavy and it sticks in her throat. She has to touch her, to feel her skin and bones and pulse under her hands, to tangle her fingers in Misty’s hair and press their faces together until they breathe the same air and she can be as sure of the younger girl’s heartbeat as she is of her own. And then the fear shifts again, and now she needs to hear her voice, more than she’s really ever needed anything else, because she needs all of Misty back, complete and whole.

“Am I…” Two words, two syllables, sounding more like a sob than anything else. Misty’s eyes and words are desperate, hands reaching and scrabbling for something to ground her. She’s always been tactile, but now she clings, and Cordelia is doing all she can to choke down her own sobbing breaths and offer up something in the shape of comfort, despite the way that every nerve in her body was quivering as if she were about to implode.

_(kissmekissmekissmekissme she’s screaming it somewhere deep in her stomach, somewhere low and impossible to silence, it’s a raw animal craving that she won’t voice but won’t ignore because it’s real and because somehow this won’t be real until she can taste her skin and mouth and swallow the panic and pain that has slowly been eating her alive. She settles for a patch of her forehead, a chaste fleeting brush of her lips there in the pretense of offering her comfort, and there’s enough taste of Misty in a single inhalation to last her for now, for this moment.)_

In the hours afterward, she feels pulled back to Misty, again and again. She can’t keep off of her — her eyes, her hands — and if it’s obvious she doesn’t care. She presses touches into Misty’s back and wrists, wraps her fingers in her hair, anything to feel close, or at least _closer_ , because God knows she’s needed that for so long now. She’s grateful for her girls, for Myrtle’s support, but as the night wears on and the warmth of Misty’s return begins to dim, her mind turns more fervently back to Michael, the future, the war.

“You’re different.” Misty doesn’t say it unkindly, she’d never dream of it. Being warm towards Cordelia is second nature to her, but she can’t help the observation from tumbling off her lips as she watches the older woman recline on the couch, her brow already knitting together in worry.

“I’m the Supreme.” Cordelia feels the tension ripple through her shoulders, however slight it might be, as she says those words. At first, when she said them, those three words felt like a victory, a celebration, a giant fuck you to a whole lifetime of cowering in the shadow of her mother’s filth and hate. But the glow of the coronation faded, and the responsibility came, the same gnawing concern for each of the girls, not just their magic but their lives. 

It was the same as before, but different. There were so many more girls, and at first that was an easy thing for Cordelia to blame. After all, the sheer magnitude of her task seemed to grow every day, as more witches came knocking and the women who wielded this magic continued to turn their eyes to her, to the Supreme, for guidance and protection and leadership. But eventually, she had to admit it was something more.

Actually, Cordelia didn’t do anything. It was Queenie and Zoe, so much older now than their years could ever show. They flanked her in the study one evening, watching the fire crackle, Zoe with a book of poems, Queenie with a book chronicling the history of New Orleans voodoo. Cordelia sat on the floor, folders detailing each witch’s education spread out before her, taking careful notes of each girl’s progress.

“I think you should probably age Millie and Shannon out of their introductory courses soon,” Zoe said, nudging the carpet next to one of the girls’ folders with her foot. “They’ve been bored for days now, and you know how that goes.”

Cordelia sighed, already shaking her head, and she could feel Queenie’s eyes roll before she even saw it.

“I don’t know if that’s best.”

“‘Delia, we’ve talked about this—”

“A week of boredom never killed anyone.”

“What happened to idle hands being the devil’s workshop and all that shit?”

“What happened to letting our girls fucking take their time?” It came out too strong, her voice cracking with anger. Strange, how the small details of her countenance that used to come across as weakness now come across as a sign of strength. Queenie’s gaze dropped to the floor as Zoe sucked in a breath. The pair looked at each other, each wordlessly putting down their books, creasing the pages to mark their places.

“Delia.” She refused to look at them, their pity too heavy of a burden to bear, not tonight. “I know it’s been hard for you since Misty.” 

“This has nothing to do with her.” Cordelia said the words as strongly as she could, biting down on each syllable, even though she knew it was a lie. 

Every single one of them made her think of Misty. When the youngest in the house performed her first transmutation and burst into laughter. When a young girl, barely 13 years old, turned a caterpillar into a butterfly and sent the whole house wild with attempts to make the wildest, hardest transformations. When she coaxed yet another girl, trembling with fear of being cast out, into staying a night, a week, a year. 

“You did everything you could,” Queenie said. Her voice has the strange ability to become so soft, soothing even, and Cordelia is always surprised by that quiet strength. “We helped you, we saw it all. We know that if you could’ve saved her, you would have.”

“Yeah, well, that worked for shit,” Cordelia muttered. She busied her hands with the papers, shoving several into one folder, stacking them all in a show of being purposeful. “It’s been a year, and look where that got us. Same place, same powers, no Misty.”

“It’s not your fault,” Zoe said, and Cordelia shook her head because it was coming, the crushing feeling in her chest and stomach, the tiny pricking at the corners of her eyes. “Cordelia—”

Zoe reached out to touch her hand, and in that moment she felt something break, something small and whole that had held this all back for so long, and she was sobbing now, with Queenie and Zoe scrambling to the floor to wrap their arms around her back. Becoming the Supreme had given her strength beyond her dreams, but this, this one failure, this one weakness, was the only thing with the power to make Cordelia feel like her old self — weak, frail, helpless.

“You have to forgive yourself,” Queenie murmured, her words soft against Cordelia’s hair. She nodded, too numb for acceptance. “You’re the Supreme. You have to let go.”

She didn’t, of course. So yes, of course Cordelia was different, of course she was changed. Her eyes were colder, her voice harder. She didn’t lack for warmth, not when it came to her girls, but there was a chill that reached more deeply. She felt herself growing stronger, tougher, and she knew every day she was coming to look and act the part more wholly. 

Now, when she swept down the stairs in the morning, cloak and broach fixed at her throat, she could feel the eyes, the murmur, that strange mix of fear and fascination that the Supreme demanded. She had earned more than her mother ever did — respect, most importantly — but when she sat at the edge of her bed in the evenings, Cordelia understood more than ever the emptiness she had felt every time she had brushed her mother’s hand with the Second Sight.

The loss — it’s chaotic and gnawing and everpresent and it won’t just go away.

So yes, she is different, and yes, it is because she is the Supreme. But it’s more than that, and how can she say that, how can she look at Misty and explain that it’s because of her failure, the years that Misty lost? How can she tell Misty that she’s different because of her?

“I know you’re the Supreme,” Misty says softly, and she idly reaches out a hand to touch Cordelia’s dress, twisting the fabric in her fingers. “But that’s not it, Miss Delia. You know I have a way of telling with people.”

Cordelia is silent, and Misty studies her carefully, the way her eyes drift away so quickly, remaining distant.

“You’re sad.” Misty is almost surprised when she says it. “And scared.”

Their eyes finally meet, and in an instant she sees that she was right, because Cordelia’s eyes are wide and damp with tears again and terrified, and God she wishes she hadn’t said anything at all.

“It’s not fair.” And she sits up quickly, firmly rubbing the heel of her hand against her eyes, pressing away tears.

“What isn’t?” Misty shifts closer, and her hand tentatively reaches, roams, before settling on Cordelia’s arm. She feels the muscle there tense, then relax. For a moment, they are both suspended in this moment, Misty’s hand on her arm, their eyes drawn to her pale skin resting against her dark sleeve. Then Cordelia raises her own hand and touches the side of Misty’s face, her thumb dragging across her cheek and along her jaw, those eyes splitting open with sadness.

“Why did it take something like this to finally get you back?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oh guess what it's a lot more angst

The first thing Misty sees is the last thing she remembers. The last good thing she remembers, at least. 

Cordelia is so close, so near, and at first the warmth is oppressive. It takes Misty a moment to realize that it’s been years _(Months? Days? God she has no idea, but it’s been so long, it’s been a lifetime)_ since someone has been this close, since any touch has been gentle. And she’s terrified, because it’s Cordelia, and she’s so close and she smells of sandalwood and incense and her hands are pressing little flames into her throat and her cheeks and her back and her sides.

_Oh God, don’t let this be a new hell. Don’t kill her, don’t take her, don’t hurt her, don’t touch her, DON’T TOUCH HER—_

“Am I?” She taps her fingers against Cordelia’s bicep, reveling at the texture, the softness of the fabric, the wiry muscle underneath. Cordelia smiles, her hands tracing Misty’s face. Her skin is burning with the touch, everywhere it goes leaving a smoldering trail. Her thumbs dust across her lips and Misty sucks in a gasp. Nothing bad is coming, nothing bad is happening, and Cordelia is tugging her to her feet, running her hand through her hair, and maybe this is real.

For precious seconds, Misty is caught in some type of perfection, maybe even heaven, looking at Cordelia, her hand gentle and possessive on her arm. Then she turns, and there are those eyes, those eyes that burn black with _nothing_ , not hate or fear or anger, just _black_. She stumbles back, back towards Cordelia, but when she turns there’s something worst — blood and fear mixing on Cordelia’s face, her hands reaching for Misty as she stumbles, then collapses.

Misty is gasping back tears, falling to her knees, her hands pressing into Cordelia’s limp back, and she thinks that this is definitely, undoubtedly, horrifically just another version of hell.

***

Cordelia won’t let Misty out of her sight. Not that Misty minds, after all, but the attention is overwhelming in a way that is strangely satisfying. She wants those looks, the little touches to her back, her arm. She wants to feel Cordelia’s eyes on her, even when she’s looking away, even when she’s pretending not to notice.

Still, as night bores on and exhaustion begins to overtake her muscles, Misty begins to fear the dark. She knows that eventually, she has to be alone, has to sleep and then dream. The dreams scare her the most.

Cordelia walks her to her room, and she must notice the hesitation, the way she lingers before opening the door.

“Do you need—” Misty swivels too quickly, and Cordelia looks abnormally sheepish as she gestures towards the room. “Do you want some company?”

In any other world, Misty might have found it suggestive, or amusing at the least, but now it’s just a welcome comfort. She ushers Cordelia in before she can find a way to back out, shutting the door with a clang that’s a little too loud.

“There’s clothes on the bed.” Cordelia turns slightly, angling her body enough to create privacy, which in turn makes Misty self conscious as she tugs off her dress and pulls on the loose top and pants folded at the foot of the bed. She glances around now, unsure of where to go. After all, what can Cordelia do — read her a bedtime story? Surely that is above her duties as Supreme.

She settles on the edge of the bed, untucking the austere comforter and shoving her feet underneath to warm them. Cordelia is still hesitating at the door, and Misty rolls her eyes, patting the blank material beside her.

“Please come over here, you look awful awkward just standin’ like that.” Cordelia hovers still, smoothing the already-rigidly-straight sheet before sitting, folding her hands on her lap stiffly until Misty reaches out to take them again. “Thank you for, well, you know. For all of it.”

Cordelia nods, slowly, and Misty watches with fascination as she hooks her thumb around one of her fingers, rubbing her forefinger along the collection of rings that band her hands.

“I needed you back.” Cordelia looks at her, gaze level and soft. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

There’s a million things left unsaid in this moment, a million dreams and regrets and wishes and fears. Misty stares at her, at the curve of her jaw and the curl of her hair, even more regal than she remembered from before. Cordelia has said so many things tonight that she knows mean something else

_I knew you for such a short time and I’ve missed you forever_

and Misty is impatient, she just needs her to say it. She squeezes Cordelia’s hand and doesn’t break her eyes, even as she hesitates, as she takes in a hesitant breath and then immediately lets it out again, as if she thought better, holding back whatever it was she was going to say.

“What is it?’ Misty’s voice belies years of impatience, because God before she thought they had so much _time_ , time to build and to be patient and to ignore all the little signs until it was too much to push off anymore. Now she knows that nothing is guaranteed, that anything good must be gotten now, in this moment, because the next breath might steal it all away. “Cordelia, please—”

“I missed everything about you.” Cordelia’s eyes drop to their hands, still intertwined in her lap. “Your voice, your eyes. I missed it. I only had sight for a few days with you, but when I regained my eyes all I wanted to look at was you. It wasn’t fair and it just, I just— I missed you.” 

Misty tips her head, watching Cordelia, and the frustration begins to boil. She knows Cordelia, knows that even beneath this facade of the confident Supreme that there will always be a glimmer of uncertainty, of doubt. And she can see, in this moment, that there is a version of this where they never talk about it, never resolve it, where all of these things remain unsaid. She pulls her hands away, not exactly gently, letting out a quiet sigh.

But then Cordelia meets her eyes, and she sees it, Misty sees her break, and suddenly she leans in, grabs Misty by the shoulders, shoves her backwards fast enough to jolt the breath out of her ribs with a _whump_. She moves quickly, one leg swinging across her torso, her knees locking Misty onto her back, hands firmly latched to her shoulders.

“Is this oka—”

“Yes, yes, you’re—”

Neither of them finish their sentences, because Cordelia’s mouth is on Misty’s and it’s all so warm and so much.

When she had envisioned this in the past— and God, how embarrassing it is, but she has played this moment out in her head, before hell, before all of this. It’s been years, because in hell your brain is stretched and massaged into putty and stuffed back into your head until all it can focus on is each individual second. Daydreams would be too much of an escape, so the nightmare was all-consuming, all-entrancing, horrific and constant and never abating. 

It’s made her forget so much from before, little details, but now they’re all rushing back with an overwhelming force. The first time she heard a Stevie song, she could barely speak, choked on the thickness of the joy each note brought her. These memories came back in floods, and now, with Cordelia’s hands fisted in her shawl and her mouth close to her throat, Misty is suddenly racked with the memory of all her years-old daydreams.

They were harmless, she’d thought, although she’d still felt flushed after letting her mind linger on the thought for more than a handful of minutes. It wasn’t like she really thought about it _all_ that much, but she’s struck, as Cordelia shoves the blankets aside and pins her to the mattress with a knee on either side of her hips, as her palm insistently presses against her collarbone to hold her firmly in place, her breath ragged and her clutch possessive as always, that she had always seen this happening the other way around, before, when she had considered it all.

It’s just that in the past, Cordelia had been strong but she had been gentle, timid, and Misty had figured it would be fun, if nothing else, to test that, to break it. When she had pictured this moment (which honestly, _honestly_ , she had figured would never happen) it had been all of her own movements, all under her control. She would push and paw and pull until Cordelia loosened up and let go long enough to allow Misty in for at least a few minutes.

Which is why it’s surprising and alarmingly arousing to have it flipped, to have Cordelia bearing down on her with her smaller frame, every bit as hungry and desperate as Misty is feeling. Of course, it makes sense — she’s the fucking _Supreme_ now, for God’s sake — but it still knocks Misty completely out, and she’s left simply sucking in breath and holding on for dear life, her eyes so wide that Cordelia notices and pulls back just as quickly as she started.

“I’m sorry, are you— did I—” Cordelia rears back, her hands soft on Misty’s face, her own eyes widening, and that gentleness has returned, not timid anymore but inextricably tender. Misty wants to cry, or laugh, or _something_. 

“No, please, come ‘ere, I need—” She doesn’t know how to explain what she needs so instead she reaches, fingers catching at the waist of Cordelia’s trousers, tugging once as hard as she can and reveling in the way the smaller woman crashes down onto her. 

They kiss, and Cordelia loses control, enough to send the flames surging out of the fireplace in the corner and sconces along the walls, embers dancing high into the air, a wave of heat pressing against their sides. It’s enough to make Misty gasp and then smirk as Cordelia tosses her head and subdues the fire with a haphazard glance.

“Sorry,” she mutters, but she doesn’t actually seem sorry at all. For a moment, she traces Misty’s lips again, her touch gentle even as her eyes burn, but then Misty opens her mouth slightly, enough to tug Cordelia’s thumb with her lips and then her teeth, and there’s a gasp and then she’s dipping her mouth to the curve of Misty’s throat and sliding her hand down and then up and then Misty is panting and keening her hips into the movement. 

Cordelia doesn’t take time fucking around, which is probably for the best since time is limited and the world is ending and everything, but more importantly Misty feels like if she doesn’t have her hands on her skin _right this minute_ she truly might fall into flames. She presses back into her body, trying to figure out what the hell to do with her hands, whether to tug off Cordelia’s shirt or pull at her hair or just trace her sides.

_More intent._

She can’t tell if Cordelia says it or if it’s just a spectre of a memory in her mind, but Misty grins anyways, pressing her hands to the small of her back and rolling her hips, enough to earn a gasp and a sigh and a grin in return. Cordelia is busy doing that thing with her hand that is entirely unfair, her mouth remaining on Misty’s throat as if she wants to taste the jump of her pulse. 

She’s fairly pinned, Cordelia’s grip with her thighs unsurprisingly unyielding, so Misty slides her hands up and under her blouse, untucking the fabric and pressing the pads of her fingers along the ridge of her spine. Cordelia arches delicately into her, fingers hesitating for a heartbeat, and Misty digs her nails in slightly, letting her grip move to her shoulder blades. There’s not much she can do to counter the way that Cordelia is making her breath come in spurts, so she does what she can, tugging the blouse up even further, pressing her palms to her ribcage and running them down to her sides where—

They both feel it at the same time, the moment that Misty’s hands press into the bandages along Cordelia’s side. She can feel the death, even through the bandage. Misty lets out a cry that curls into a sob, even as Cordelia pulls back, grabbing Misty’s wrist and shoving her away.

“Delia, what is this, what did you do, you need help, you—” Misty’s voice is panicked, and she reaches to lift the blouse again, but Cordelia pushes her hands away, a wild look, half fear and half rage, replacing whatever tenderness had filled her eyes.

“Don’t.” She sits back, scrambling until their bodies are completely untangled, standing quickly. Already, her hands are stuffing the blouse back down, smoothing the wrinkles, running her fingers through her hair. Already, she is transforming back to be the Supreme. “It’s not— it doesn’t concern you.”

“It does too.” Misty doesn’t sound petulant or whiny, just perplexed. She sits on the side of the bed, hands at her sides. Cordelia looks at her, at the way she didn’t even bother to adjust the dress falling off her shoulders or her hair, which is even more rumpled than usual. She looks, and she realizes for the first time how selfish bringing back Misty may have been.

She’s dying. She knows she’s dying, has known it for weeks. She can feel something caving inside her chest, something seeping outwards. 

Cordelia knows how this goes. Misty wasn’t around before, and all she knows of the transfer of the Supremacy is the rise — how Cordelia is now, strong and certain, at least on the surface. She wasn’t there the last time. She didn’t see Fiona cave in on herself, become simply a shell of her former visage. She didn’t hold her mother’s decrepit body in her arms, feel the wheezing final breaths of a lifetime drifting away. 

And she’s brought back Misty to see it happen all over again. In the hours since Misty told her this was a mistake _(you should’ve left me where I was)_ , Cordelia had asked herself, again and again, why she had brought her back _now_ , like _this_ , giving up so much for her life. Maybe she needed to have Misty there to comfort the failure of letting the world come to an end. Maybe she just needed to know that she would be held when she finally met her own.

“What is it?” She realizes she’s staring, but Misty’s voice is so gentle that she doesn’t tear her eyes away. She shifts nearer, returning to the bed but leaving a space between them. 

“I won’t be Supreme forever, Misty.” She watches the younger woman as she swallows, nods, even though those tears are back, reddening the edges of her eyes. “Another is coming, and maybe it isn’t Michael but regardless— I’m fading.”

Misty nods. Cordelia can see her struggling, in the way that her cheek twitches and her jaw clenches, but she’s grateful in this moment to see that she refuses to break. It’s comforting to not be the strong one. Not all the time. Not this once.

“I knew it would—” She can’t finish the sentence, and instead Misty, tactile as ever, reaches out, filling the space between them to press a hand to Cordelia’s shoulder. “Can I see?”

Cordelia nods, and those hands return, softer this time, fluttering at her sides for a moment before they tug the blouse out and pull at each button. Her skin is smooth under her shirt, and Misty presses an affection palm into her ribcage, sliding it so softly that Cordelia can’t help but shudder. Under any other circumstance her hips would’ve jerked up and she would’ve pulled Misty closer, but now all she can do is watch as those hands press gently into the bandage, lifting the tape and peeling away the white gauze.

“Oh.” The sore has been worse, but Cordelia doesn’t want to tell her that. It’s still inches long, black and thick and ugly. Misty runs her hand across it before pressing her palm gently against the abrasive scab. “How long?”

“A week or so.” Cordelia shakes her head, hesitantly covering Misty’s fingers with her own. “I’ve been using my best salves on it. It’ll be fine, with time, just like anything else.”

Misty’s eyes return up, blue and swollen and _fierce_ with something, and she leans in again, pressing their lips together, kissing her until she can’t choke the sobs anymore, until she’s forced to pull away and drop her forehead to Cordelia’s shoulder. It fills Cordelia with warmth, pooling deep in her stomach as she reaches for Misty, her fingers naturally weaving into her hair. The way Misty touches her feels like a special kind of magic, like she’s one of the plants in the greenhouse and Misty is healing her whole, knitting the fiber of her being anew. She presses kisses to her hair, that warmth filling her gut, until her voice stuns her out of the moment.

“I hope that helped.” Cordelia looks down at the top of Misty’s head, and then down at her own torso as the younger woman pulls back, glancing down at where their hands remain intertwined on her side. She pulls back and sucks in a breath — the skin is smooth again, without even a scar marking where the blackness had twisted her skin only minutes before.

“Misty, I—” But there aren’t words, really, so Cordelia settles for resting their heads together, her hands cupping Misty’s cheeks, her eyes attempting to memorize every feature of her delicate face.

And maybe Cordelia was selfish or greedy to bring Misty back. Maybe it was a mistake, a step too far, but she didn’t care anymore. The world was ending and she was dying and Cordelia was beginning to think that Misty Day just might be the last thing on this earth that could heal her wholly again.


	3. Epilogue

Safe is only a word to them now.

They both know that safety is an illusion, just guesswork. It will never exist for them. Not again. Not now. And yet. And _yet_. They will crave it, yearn for it, even with the darkness seeping in at the edges of their vision, even with the hollow future creeping ever closer.

And when Misty first sees her swamp again, she feels as close to safe as she could anywhere, in any time or any place.

_(perhaps that’s not true, perhaps not any place, perhaps not any time, because she can think of several moments that felt even warmer, truer, when Cordelia cradled her gently and firmly, all at once soft and hard in the right places and the right ways, pressing her down and swallowing her up in something too fierce and too fragile to be anything but home.)_

It hasn’t changed at all. That’s the thing about nature, about life in its purest form. It’s why Misty has always loved it so dearly. Years have passed and hell has come for her and relinquished her and born her anew, and yet here the swamp is the same, the trees a little older and taller, the path leading down to her shack more overgrown. But the heart of it was the same, untainted, unweathered.

Misty closed her eyes as she walked, letting the energy of her home seep in through her skin. If she let herself float in just the right way, she could _feel_ the love of the place swarming around her. The swamp is heavy, with heat and humidity, yes, but more so with emotion, a sort of love that hangs densely and coats the skin of anyone walking through it. The swamp feels like mud, thick and cakey but also full of life, teeming with it even when it seems still. The water is the same, murky and trickling but dense with energy and breath and all this goddamn _life_. 

She closes her eyes, and instantly Cordelia’s hand is on her back, perhaps to guide or support or only as a way to anchor herself. Misty doesn’t have words to explain that she’s okay, better than okay, that she feels the closest to herself that she’s felt since forever. Time in hell was infinite and fleeting all at once, and Misty feels so distant from herself that she can scarcely breathe, but not here. Not now.

She doesn’t have words, so instead she reaches for that hand, encloses it in her own, _presses_. When she hears Cordelia gasp, soft, light, she lightens the pressure. After a heartbeat, those slender fingers squeeze Misty’s hand in return, and she opens her eyes to see Cordelia smiling as bright as the sun rising over the tops of the trees, breaking through whatever fog had clouded the moments leading up to this.

“I never knew.” Cordelia looks around, her eyes alight with a new sense of wonder. “I always knew you loved it, but I didn’t understand—”

She doesn’t have to finish the sentence. Misty knows what she means. It’s hard to explain, and there really aren’t words. There’s never words to explain something like this. That’s what magic is for, she thinks. For saying what can’t be otherwise said. For doing what otherwise can’t be done. 

They stand for a moment, watching the way the light filters through the spongy moss hanging from the interwoven branches above. It slants, golden, casting everything with warmth. Cordelia’s hand is still in hers, fingers pressing lightly with assurance. Misty could’ve stayed forever, basking in the glow, letting it slowly fill her with the wholeness she’s missed since the horrible hollow of hell. But then Cordelia sways, just slightly, but enough to jar Misty from her revery, to remember that this is a trip with a purpose, not the eternity she longs for so desperately.

The shack is clean. She staggers at the sight — her bed made, the sheets washed, a rug carefully displayed on the floor. On the wall there’s her poster of Stevie Nicks, a little worn but still bright as day, and below it her record player, her records, a radio, everything she could want or need.

“I took care of it,” Cordelia murmurs, running her finger along the table. “Just in case.”

“Just in case.” Misty echoes her words, at a loss for anything else, bewildered and overwhelmed by the sheer love that it must have taken to return here, for years, just to keep home tidy for a dead woman.

“I need you to know that this is goodbye.” Her jaw is set when she says this. The Supremacy suits Cordelia so well, but Misty hates this hardness, the way that she carries her strength with a clipped tone, a bite, a scowl. She knows it is necessary, knows that strength and fervor are the necessities of this position. But she doesn’t like it, not on Cordelia, whose eyes are so soft whenever she turns them to Misty.

“I know.”

There is silence, but it says enough for both of them. They know that the fight ahead has stolen any guarantee for the future, that it’s stolen the future outright. They will lose, even if they win, because Misty will lose Cordelia. That loss is too much for her to bear outright, so she tries not to think of it, to think instead of what she has regained.

“I need you to know what this meant.” She says it and it’s more desperate than she meant, the words choked as she reaches, and Cordelia meets her halfway, and the second their skin is touching all of it is flowing — from both of them, wave upon wave of regret and longing and hurt — and Cordelia stumbles forward, her head falling to rest against Misty’s chest.

_“I’m sorry.”_

What could she be sorry for? For not having enough time, for not being able to steal them even a day, a week? For not knowing how to bring her back on her own, for not having the strength or the evil to save her in time? For dying?

“I know.”

They stand, touching and looking and _feeling_ , for too long to count. It’s dark when they finally break apart, returning to the silent loneliness of their own minds, both already gasping as if out of breath, already wishing they could feel the other again.

_“Can you stay?”_

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“I know.”_

Cordelia leaves and takes the light with her. Misty lays on her back, the record soft and sweet in the background. She left something, a spell of some sort, and it wraps Misty in that same safe softness, the feeling of Cordelia. It smells slightly of her in the air she left behind, and perhaps this is magic of its own, the way a thought of the other woman can make her feel at home, at peace.

She lays. She waits. And Misty isn’t quite happy, isn’t quite full. But she is safe.

 

***

It might be days, or weeks, or years.

Time doesn’t really exist on the swamp, and Misty has never liked time anyways.

But one day, the sun rises, and there is a new light, a new brightness. Misty turns her head towards it, towards the glow that is filling every inch of the room. She turns and she _sees_ and it’s all she can do not to sob.

“Cor _delia_.”

The moment they touch again, Misty finally feels she is back from the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys so much for reading!


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